Warriors [4] Theros Ironfield by Don Perrin Page A

seemed to grow almost a full inch overnight.
    The ship rocked gently from side to side. Its sails were completely unfurled, catching the breath of the sea. Theros watched the minotaurs crawl among the rigging, wondered if he himself still had the knack. He longed to try, but his skill was needed in weapon-making. Standing on deck, he recalled old Heretos, his first master.
    “I am not a slave. I am an honored member of the crew,” Heretos had stated proudly.
    Now Theros could say the same. He was sought after to sharpen and re-hone the edges of weapons, to refit axes with broken handles. He was skilled in carving the intricate designs that the minotaur warriors placed on their weapons. Through the years, he had become skilled in leatherwork and knew the secrets of fastening metal to leather to form well-made armor.
    And he had Hran to thank for it.
    Memories of the smith returned to Theros, including the first time they had ever met.
    Theros had been one of fifty slaves ceded to the commander of the Third Army. The commander had been informed of Theros’s skill as a smith, but the minotaur had not believed that a human could do such exacting work. Theros had been put to work in the commissary section ofthe rear guard. But instead of peeling and slicing for preparation of food, Theros was usually found out back of the tents, sharpening the kitchen knives or sewing and repairing the tents.
    One day, right before the army shipped off to Silvanesti, a large minotaur, dressed in the leather apron that marked him as a blacksmith, watched Theros as he sharpened knives.
    “Don’t you work in the commissary section, slave?” Hran asked.
    Theros stood up respectfully. “Yes, sir. But the cook says I am more useful sharpening and sewing than I am preparing a meal. This is what I used to do on board ship.”
    Hran grunted. Grabbing the young man by the arm, the smith dragged Theros inside the commissary tent. He found the minotaur in charge. “Perjaf, this slave tells me he sharpens knives and sews cloth for you. Is he lying?”
    Perjaf wiped his hands on his apron. He had just finished slaughtering a pig. “No, the slave tells the truth. Why, was he not doing as he was told? Was he snooping around your shop? If he was, I’ll beat some manners—”
    “You have the brains of a goat, Perjaf. This slave is much too valuable to waste sharpening knives to cut onions. I want him to work for me.”
    Perjaf scowled. “He is quite valuable. He does leatherwork, too.”
    “What do you want in return?” Hran was older, senior to Perjaf, but they held comparable positions, so they had to barter.
    Perjaf hesitated a moment. Hran had been good to him, had provided him with excellent knives and other implements over the years. He could not, however, just hand over the slave to him. It would demean him in Hran’s eyes.
    “Have your new slave make me a leather harness for my battle-axe. My old one is worn through, and will split before too long. Do we have an exchange, Hran?”
    Hran nodded, grinned broadly. “Done. Come along, slave.”
    Theros could not believe his luck. At last, he was going to learn from a master.
    “Where did you acquire the skills you have?” Hran eyed the boy as if he were a gift sent from Sargas. Theros looked eagerly around the forge, his gaze fixing on several fine swords.
    “I was a slave to the warriors on the
Blatvos Kemas
, a war barge under the Velek hierarchy, until it was signed over to Supreme Circle member Kronic. He sold the ship, and most of the slaves, including me, were sent here.”
    Hran nodded approvingly. Seeing Theros studying the swords, the minotaur asked, “Do you know how to make a forge hot, to hammer metal into a fine blade?”
    Theros shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t.” He looked down at his feet. He felt two inches tall.
    Hran slapped the human on the back, nearly sending Theros headfirst into the forge. “We have much work to do! You will be my apprentice, and will learn